Some women scream.
Some women cry.
And some women—like my mother—stay silent.
My mother carried pain in the spaces between words. The people who hurt her the most never had to answer for it. They wore respectability like a coat, while she wore silence like armor. But even armor grows heavy when you wear it for decades.
She rarely spoke of what was done to her. And when she did, it was wrapped in disclaimers:
“It wasn’t so bad…”
“They meant well…”
But I saw it. I saw the flicker in her eyes when a name was mentioned. I heard the pause in her voice. I felt the pain passed down in glances, in expectations, in the invisible command to be strong and say nothing.
The Curse of Being Misunderstood
The world thought she was fine. Strong. Dutiful. A model of resilience.
But resilience built on denial isn’t healing — it’s erosion.
She wasn’t loud. So they believed she wasn’t hurting.
She didn’t accuse. So they assumed she had nothing to forgive.
They didn’t see what was screaming inside her.
But I did. Even as a child, I knew.
She taught me — unintentionally — that suffering in silence was noble. That taking care of everyone else meant you were good. That speaking up was dangerous.
And so, I did what she did.
I became the “good girl.” The helper. The silent one.
But silence doesn’t protect the soul. It buries it.
What I’m Learning Now
I am learning that love can be honest. That grief can be sacred. That silence isn’t always strength — sometimes it’s surrender to fear.
I honor my mother, not by copying her silence, but by telling the truth she couldn’t say.
The truth is: she was hurt.
The truth is: they got away with it.
The truth is: she deserved to be believed, and she wasn’t.
And still — she endured.
Not because she wasn’t broken, but because she was, and kept going anyway.
My Healing Now
I speak, so the next generation doesn’t have to guess.
I write, so the pain doesn’t die unspoken.
I create, so beauty and truth can meet in sacred conversation.
This isn’t about blame. It’s about freedom.
It’s about taking the legacy of silence and transmuting it into healing.
My mother’s heart screamed.
And now, through me, it finally speaks.
Your Voice Matters
If you’ve been holding someone else’s silence, I want you to know:
You don’t have to.
You’re allowed to tell the truth.
You’re allowed to be the voice that heals the wound.
Heart Song
by Brigetta Margarietta Gruzdis ©2020
Mother Dove.
Soft core.
The Princess and the Pea.
Suffers so.
Blood everywhere.
Little chicks pecking at cracked corn in the barnyard.
The cock crowed once.
Mystery enshrouds.
Grace freezes.
Bubbles depart.
Roses remain.
